


Intermezzo: Reflection

by CaitlinFairchild



Series: Somatic Theory [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Play, BDSM, Bondage, Communication, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, Dom/sub, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, John Watson Has a Filthy Mouth, M/M, Riding Crops, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 23:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2044836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Open your eyes, love,” John whispers. “Open your eyes and look.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermezzo: Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a fun, fluffy PWP. Then things got weird.
> 
> This can be read as a standalone, but will make much more sense in the context of the larger Somatic Theory universe.
> 
>  
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr if you like:  
>    
> [CaitlinIsPiningforJohnlock](http://caitlinispiningforjohnlock.tumblr.com/)
> 
> or hit me up at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
> 
>  
> 
> A million thanks to everyone for reading. You're the very best.

Warm clever fingers untie the knot at the back of Sherlock’s head. The rough black silk falls away from his eyes.

“Open your eyes, love,” John whispers. “Open your eyes and look.”

Sherlock obeys.

The mirror is an old, tatty charity shop monstrosity, a meter and a half tall and two meters wide. It rests on the floor, propped against the wall facing their bed. Masses of mismatched pillar candles are grouped on either side of the mirror, their light reflected in the silvered glass, wax dripping and pooling on the trays beneath.

Framed in the gilt edges of the mirror is a man on his knees, restrained, wrists cuffed securely to his thighs, black leather collar around his long slim neck. Dark pink marks mar the pale skin of his stomach and pectorals, physical tokens of a riding crop expertly applied. His nipples, pierced by small silver barbells, are puffy and red from hours of rough use, of fingers and teeth teasing and tormenting them. A purple love bite blooms on his shoulder. His lips are so dark and swollen they look almost bruised, his face suffused with mottled blush of arousal. His eyes are hooded and glassy, his hair a wild tangle of curls. 

Between his legs his cock is jutting forth, a deep dusky red. A thin leather ring encircles his penis, bisects his scrotum, separates his balls, keeping him hard and and aching yet unable to come.

Seeing himself like this, bound and submissive, thoroughly abused and fucked and yet still hard, still desperately needy, sends hot showering sparks of arousal through Sherlock’s body. He shivers helplessly, a tiny whimper escaping his throat.

“I see myself,” Sherlock breathes, his voice low and rough from hours of moaning, of begging, of crying out in pain and pleasure.

John kneels down behind him, kisses his shoulder. The riding crop is in his left hand; he trails the flat leather tongue along the insides of Sherlock's thighs, just barely brushing across his aching trapped bollocks. Sherlock drops his head and closes his eyes as a rough, guttural moan escapes his lips.

He’s had his collar on for two days. John has not yet allowed him to come.

“Shh, pet,” John croons in his ear, bringing the rod up to his chest, holding it with two hands, sliding up his throat, using it to gently but firmly nudge up Sherlock’s chin. “Look. Look at yourself and tell me what you see.”

Sherlock opens his eyes, watches his own sore and abused body arch and quiver under the crop held in John’s strong hands, the rod pressing insistently across his collarbone. His can see where his pulse throbs in his neck, how his chest rises and falls with each quick and shallow respiration.

The air is thick in his flared nostrils, rendolent with the sweet scent of melted beeswax and the darker musk of human bodies in rut.

He’s exhausted, in body and mind. John has had him here for two days now; two days spent in the deepest depths of subspace, restrained and blindfolded, spread open and penetrated, debased in every way possible. Even in rest John has kept him utterly submissive, hand feeding him bites of food from his plate before carefully bathing him and rubbing arnica ointment into bruised flesh, then tying his leash to the bedpost, making him sleep at the foot of the bed. 

(He's not even allowed up to use the toilet. John makes him piss in an empty jar, carefully holding his penis while he burns with aroused shame. The first time his body had struggled to comply and John had punished him, first spanking him hard with a wooden hairbrush until he screamed, then fucking him to the bloody edge of orgasm with the lacquered handle.)

His mind is blank now, washed clean by humiliation and pain and aching, desperate pleasure. He’s almost forgotten there ever anything else, that he was ever anything else before this. He’s consumed by the dark void of that inexplicable realm almost beyond sensation, pleasure indistinguishable from pain. There is nowhere further to go, he thought, no deeper place for John to take him.

Until now.

Seeing himself like this, restrained and abused, a vision of debasement, Sherlock feels the familiar sharp twist of confused shame and lust and shivery arousal, the dormant ache of denied release bursting into flame, the need burning hot and deep in his pelvis.

He whimpers helplessly.

“Words, pet,” John murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

He struggles to swim against the dark tides flowing through him.

“Obscene,” he breathes raggedly. “Pornographic. Taken and fucked and marked and hurt."

John’s breathing hitches as he uses the crop to pull Sherlock closer to him, pressing his warm sweat-damp chest into his back. His freshly-spent cock is still soft where it presses against the cleft of his buttocks but John still sighs into his ear, pressing his pelvis close, thrusting insistently against him, and Sherlock knows that if this ravenously insatiable man hadn’t already come twice in the past four hours and who knows how many times yesterday, he’d already be pushing his face down to the floor and pulling the plug out of his arse to fuck him hard for the third time today. 

“And you have been, haven’t you?” John murmurs, low and harsh, eyes dark and glittering, his silver hair turned golden by the flickering candlelight. “I’ve fucked you wide open and filled you with my come and beaten you until you’ve cried and still. Look at you. My dirty little fucktoy, used and broken, and you still want more. It’s never enough for you, is it? You always want more.”

Another tiny pathetic whimper is pulled from him as the slow grind of John’s hips causes the toy to shift within him, brushing his prostate. He feels warm and wet, open and slick inside with semen, the rim of his hole sore and burning, stretched around the base of the large plug that fucks into him with every breath he takes.

And yet Sherlock still wants more. He wants to be taken apart, consumed piece by piece until there’s nothing left of him that’s human, nothing left but a base creature of flesh and pain and need. He squirms against the pressure of the crop, whining low and needy in his throat like a trapped animal.

His cock twitches, desperate for release, precome dribbling freely, the constraint of the ring keeping him at the edge of the precipice.

“God, yes,” John breathes in his ear. “Look at how beautiful you are like this.” He bites at the juncture of his neck and throat, sucking a bruise into the pale flesh below his collar, making him arch and squirm under his mouth.

John looks up at their reflection; his eyes shine in the candlelight, glittering with lust bordering on cruelty. “Beg me for more,” he whispers harshly. “Look at yourself as you beg me for more, my dirty little slut.”

“Please,” Sherlock moans brokenly. “Please, give me more. I need it, I do. I need more.”

The pressure of the crop pressed against his chest falls away falls away as John straightens and stands.

“Head up and eyes on the mirror," John says softly, the dark commanding edge still unmistakable. “If you close them we start over. Do you understand?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock murmurs, and he obeys, watching himself. His bruised lips are parted, chest and cheeks stained with the flush of arousal, his shoulders tensing involuntarily as he waits for the first blow.

He sees John swing before he feels it, a sharp bite of fire across his left shoulder blade. He watches his face twist in a gasp of pain and fights the impulse to close his eyes.

“Good boy,” John murmurs with approval, and hits him again. He lays down a precise pattern, stinging lines of fire across his back, never overlapping the blows. Sherlock watches himself take the blows, tears glittering in his eyes as he gasps small cries of pain. 

Seeing himself in the mirror amplifies the oddly dreamlike, out of body feeling of the moment, twisting into a Mobius strip of viewing and participation, confusing his senses, making him feel unmoored, drifting away from his own body. He watches himself be beaten by his lover, his tormentor, the two of them acting out a gorgeous and profane pornography that he’s seeing and feeling simultaneously, experiencing the sensations both within and without his own body.

It’s unbearably arousing and dizzyingly confusing at the same time.

Sherlock’s mind has never been this disconnected from reality, this terrifyingly untethered from the empirical physical world that is the foundation of his self, and something very like panic skitters along the edge of his mind, a metallic bite of fear that has nothing to do with the pain of the crop against his back. He sees the body in the mirror tensing, shoulders hunching; he sees his diaphragm constricting, his respiration becoming short and shallow, eyes widening in fear. 

John is deep in his own space, feeding his own deep need as he swings the crop hard against pale and tender flesh, and Sherlock is suddenly terribly afraid, afraid of disconnection, afraid John is too far away from him--

But John is his other half, deeply and irrevocably connected to him in this profoundly strange and intimate dance, and he sees it immediately, sees the minute shift of Sherlock’s shoulders and the strangled breathing. In the next moment John is on his knees, crop tossed aside, running gentle fingertips along his shoulders.

“Give me a color, love,” he murmurs, voice gentle.

“Yellow,” Sherlock rasps, his breathing shallow as he gulps for air.

“All right.” John kisses the nape of his neck, his hair. “Thank you, pet, for telling me. I’m so proud of you for telling me.” He presses a gentle hand to Sherlock’s chest. “Deep, even breaths, now.”

Sherlock breathes, deliberate and slow. In, out. In, out.

“I’ve got you, love,” John murmurs gently into his hair. “It’s all right. I’ve always got you.”

They stay like that for several moments, breathing together, John’s hand warm over his heart. The incipient panic fades, and Sherlock’s shoulders relax as the warmth returns, flows around him, cocoons him, protects him.

John is here. John will keep him safe, always.

“Color?” John whispers into his ear

“Green,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Good boy.” John kisses his shoulder in answer, tongue tasting him as it trails across the top edge of his collarbone. His right hand remains over his heart while his left weaves through the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head and pulls, firmly but not cruelly, bringing Sherlock’s head up to look in the mirror. In their reflection, John pins him with his dark gaze, eyes gone hooded and dreamy with lust. Sherlock is mute, transfixed, utterly unable to look away from the face of his beloved captor.

“You told me what you see, now I tell you what I see,” John rumbles, his voice a low purr. “I see the most exquisite creature in the universe, restrained and helpless, my possession to use as I please.” His hand strokes Sherlock’s chest in slow circles; his thumb circles a sore, sensitive nipple and flicks with the nail, making him cry out softly. “I see a fallen angel on his knees, broken and bound, corrupted and defiled by lust.” Insistent fingers slip lower, tracing across the quivering muscles of his taut abdomen. “I see a willing slave, chained by his own filthy need.”

John cups his bollocks firmly, undoes the snaps of the cock ring; Sherlock gasps at the exquisite rush of hot molten pleasure as his cock is freed; his testicles hang heavy, full and tender from denied release. The tightness in his belly winds higher, his body already rushing to the edge of orgasm at John’s gorgeous filthy words. “I see a gorgeous, shameless whore,” John murmurs in his ear, "spread open for me, helpless and desperate and aching to come.” John’s fingers slide back up to stroke his neck, his cheek. Sherlock is unable to stop the needy, animal noises coming from his throat as his pelvis twitches, rutting against nothing, his body burning with his need for contact.

“Look at how badly you want it,” John chuckles, dark and soft. “And you’re at my mercy, aren’t you? You need it, and you need me to give it to you.” He runs his fingers across Sherlock’s puffy lower lip, slips two of them into his mouth. Sherlock watches himself suck desperately at John’s fingers as they fuck his mouth, the drool shining wet in the corners as John shoves two more past his sore overused lips. Sherlock sees his mouth stretches obscenely around four fingers as his cock bobs stiff against his belly, wet with leaking precome, and he cries out in sharp pleasure when John pulls his wet fingers out of his mouth and wraps them around his painfully hard cock.

“This is what I love the most,” John breathes into his ear, fist sliding down his cock. “Controlling your body, making it do what I want. I want to make you come now, and you can’t stop it. You have to take it, don’t you? I’m going to make you come and you can’t stop it.” 

Sherlock’s back arches as his balls begin to tighten and draw up, the tension growing almost unbearable as the pleasure winds him tighter and tighter. He can’t keep himself from moaning brokenly with need as he thrusts into the tight circle of John’s fingers.

“You’re going to come so hard, make such a mess,” John murmurs as he works his cock. “And you’re going to watch as you come all over yourself, with your cock in my hand and a thick toy up your arse. Do you like that, you greedy slut?”

“Oh God,” Sherlock gasps, on the very edge of climax, every nerve ending alight. “Yes, please, oh god, anything, just please, _oh please--_ "

John’s fingers tighten as he jerks roughly at his cock, pulling hard at the tip the way he likes, as his other hand twists in his hair, holding his head upright. “Come for me, then,” John growls. “Watch yourself come for me, you filthy whore.”

Sherlock has a brief, confused flash of the shoreline before a tsunami, the tide pulling away from naked sand, and then his orgasm crests and breaks and he’s coming hard, a sob torn from his throat as he convulses helplessly, drowning in an overwhelming wave of pleasure but he does what he is told and watches, he fights every instinct and keeps his eyes open and he sees himself in the mirror, his cock spurting forcefully, two days of denied arousal onto his own stomach and chest and John’s fist, his face twisted in an open-mouthed rictus of pleasure as the bliss explodes across every nerve, lights every cell on fire for a single timeless moment.

And then the wave passes and his body slumps forward, his lungs still gasping for air. John’s strong arms encircle him, keeping him from falling as the powerful aftershocks make him shiver uncontrollably, John guides him down onto the blanket spread across the floor, gently eases the slick silicone plug from his body. He’s barely cognizant of the wetness covering him, coating his chest and belly and trickling out of his arse, sticky and rapidly cooling, or of John unbuckling the heavy black cuffs that tether his hands to his thighs.

He feels dizzy and fuzzy as John wipes him clean with a soft towel, and he must be visibly shivering because John pulls the duvet and pillows from the bed and covers Sherlock, gently sliding a pilllow under his head.

“Shh, it’s okay, shh,” John croons tenderly as he strokes the side of his face, his shoulder. “Shh. I’ve got you. You’re so good, you’re so perfect, I love you so much.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and allows the gentle words to flow over him like a balm, wash him clean, carry his sins away as he floats drowsily along the current.

“Hey, love,” John’s voice is tender and warm, as are the fingers that brush damp strands of hair from his forehead. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock nods mutely, not quite trusting himself to speak just yet. He feels like what was possibly the best orgasm of his life has rebooted his system, wiped him blank and empty, and the systems are slow to come back online. He grabs John’s hand and tugs on it, pulling him down to the floor. John gets the hint and lays down next to him, wrapping an arm around his hip and holding him close, heedless of the damp stickiness of his body.

“You’re so amazing,” John murmurs reverently, kissing the damp curl at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock’s systems are restarting, clarity of thought returning. He begins to catalogue the data of his body: a trickle of semen down his leg, the burning soreness of his arse, the sting of the crop marks on his chest and back.

He usually feels good, after they finish. Sometimes he has a bit of a moment, a brief blue thing that comes and goes, but usually he feels relaxed and happy and open, laughing and cuddling and kissing John. But now… he doesn’t feel good right now. Not at all. He thinks about the past two days, about all the things he let John do to him, begged John to do to him, and he feels embarrassed and ashamed and terrible.

“I’m not,” he says, and to his horror his voice is thick with tears. “I’m _awful._ ”

And oh, thank God for John, wonderful John, who notices right away that something is badly amiss. He props himself up on one arm and looks at Sherlock with tender concern. “Oh, baby,” he says gently.“You’re having a bad drop, I think. We’ve never gone this long before.” He sits up, arranges Sherlock so his curly head is resting on his naked thigh, and strokes his hair.

Sherlock curls his naked body into a fetal position, shivering, trying desperately to hold the sobs at bay.

“It’s okay,” John says soothingly. “It will pass in a few minutes. It’s just chemicals. It will pass.”

Sherlock nods, swallowing back tears. This is mortifying.

“You can cry if you need to,” John says soothingly. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“I don’t--” And then he is crying, not the melodramatic tears of emotional release that sometimes happen when he’s subbing, but something deeper, something pried loose from the bedrock of his soul that he doesn’t even understand. 

“Why do I need this?” he asks before he can stop himself, his voice plaintive and lost as a child’s. “Why do I want you to do these things to me?”

“Oh, love.” John kisses the top of his head, leans his cheek on his hair. “Sweetheart. No one really knows, I don’t think. Crossed wires in the brain, probably. Pleasure and pain overlap, and probably just more in some people than others. It’s not even that uncommon. And nothing at all to be ashamed of.”

“But how can you look at me and know that I can be like this?” Sherlock asks through the tears, low and hoarse, the words tumbling out of him unbidden. “How can you still admire me, still respect me, after the things I ask you to do to me?”

“Hey. No. Listen to me.” John pulls at his hair, kindly but firmly, forcing Sherlock to turn his head and look at him. “I admire and respect you more than anyone else in the entire universe. Never for a second think otherwise.” He wipes the tears away with his thumbs, kisses Sherlock’s cool, damp forehead. “And I’m amazed and humbled that you trust me enough to let me see this part of you.”

“Let you see it?” Sherlock laughs shakily. “Before you, I wasn’t even aware it existed.”

“Even more amazing.” John pets his hair, stroking him like a cat. “Do you enjoy what we do? Does it make you feel good while we’re doing it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply.

“So do I," John says, quiet and certain. "That’s all that matters. What you're feeling is is just a passing moment, love. Hormones surging, neurotransmitters rebalancing. You’re all right. We’re all right.”

John’s fingers card through his hair, nails scratching oh-so-gently against his scalp. Sherlock relaxes into the feeling, tears drying as the awful cold feeling crests and then slowly recedes, leaving him relaxed and sated on the other side.He hums and nuzzles into Johns thigh, brings his arm up to drape across John’s waist, feeling the ache of overtaxed muscles and stinging reddened skin. The two of them are silent for several minutes, enjoying the warmth and closeness of their exhausted bodies.

“Better now?” John asks presently.

“Much,” Sherlock murmurs. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“We’ve never been that intense before. I pushed you pretty hard, and you just needed to get your equilibrium back. It’s absolutely fine.” John kisses him once more. “Can I take your collar off now? I think we need some regular us time.”

It surprises Sherlock when he realizes he wants to say no.

 _I could stay here,_ Sherlock thinks. He could let himself be pulled under by this warm sweet tide of submission, wrap himself in John, make the two of them into an entire universe.

They could shut out the world and live inside each other forever.

The seductiveness of that thought is profound and terrifying.

Then the moment passes, and reality asserts itself.

“Okay,“ Sherlock murmurs. John unbuckles the leather strap, pulls the collar free from his neck. For a moment he feels an odd dislocation, a moment of vertigo between submission and real life, between what he is and what he could be.

“Bath time first,” John says. “Then an ibuprofen, then dinner. What would you like?”

A frisson of anxiety dances down his spine.

_I could be safe there,_ he thinks. _I could be free._

“I don’t know,” he says, closing his eyes. “You decide.”


End file.
